Page 2 of Season of the Scoundrel
Writing about society, balls, soirees, who was pursuing who—none of that interested her, unless she suspected the people in question might be caught up in some kind of criminal activity, of course. For years, she had consumed gossip rags avidly, but it was only ever out of a desire to be knowledgeable, not fascination with the goings-on of noble ladies and gentlemen.
“As you’ve read in my work, sir, I’m passionate about social reform. Did you see my piece about insurance swindlers who seek to fleece others of their hard-earned wages? The Porphyrion Insurance Company?—”
“Yes, yes, I did skim that piece, Miss Bridewell. It is clear you have a desire to do good.” He lifted a hand and gestured as if an idea had just struck. “Why not write of noble ladies and the charitable endeavors they’re engaged in? It might inspire others to take up such causes and then donate to said charities.”
“What if I wrote of the conditions which required the establishment of those charities? If we could address the root causes, we may not need charities.”
Mr. Smythe grimaced for a moment and then let out a sigh.
“Or,” Ivy said, “I could write about crime within noble circles. You’d be shocked at how much goes on and is hushed up among peers. Blackmail schemes, theft, gambling, horse race fixing. As you’ll see in my article about the criminal ring?—”
Mr. Smythe put a palm out to stop her. “That article disturbs me, Miss Bridewell, but mostly because itnamesthe nobleman you suspect. If we were to print such a piece, we would be presented with an immediate libel suit from Lord Penrose.”
“The story has been thoroughly researched, sir.”
“Miss Bridewell, we are not a scandal sheet. We are abeacon. We look to uplift and inspire, not expose.” He rifled through some papers on his desk. “Ah, yes, here we are. The queen’s daughter, Princess Louise, is to attend a charity ball next month. You’ve likely been invited to attend. Your connections and insights would be invaluable toThe Beacon.”
Ivy deflated as if a stone had been laid upon her chest, pushing all the air from her lungs. Sheknewher writing could make a difference, but it was clear thatThe Beaconwould not be the place to do it.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Smythe. I hope you’ll understand that I wish to devote my efforts to pieces that will help bring about real change.”
He tipped his head, looking at her almost paternally. “Your youthful exuberance is delightful and would be valued here, Miss Bridewell. And your access to noble homes would make you the perfect correspondent to cover our society column.”
The poor man couldn’t know Ivy did her best toavoidthe soirees and balls thrown by her brother-in-law and sister, the Duke and Duchess of Edgerton. They’d even allowed her to avoida third Season and pursue her dream of becoming a journalist instead. Their support was a gift, and she couldn’t squander it.
So, no, writing about nobles and their fetes wasn’t at all what she’d envisioned when she’d sent out her letters of inquiry.
”You may see me as someone who is invited to all the best events, but I’m not, Mr. Smythe. I avoid them, in all honesty.”
He nodded and smiled. “Perhaps you could stop avoiding them.”
Though Ivy’s urge was to do her utmost to convince Mr. Smythe that she was capable of being an investigative reporter, she sensed that nothing would. He had his idea about what she should write, and she had a very different notion.
“I am honored that you would wish me to write forThe Beacon. May I think on it and give you an answer tomorrow?”
“Most assuredly. Please give my best regards to the duke and duchess, and I hope you will join us, Miss Bridewell.”
He stood, and Ivy got to her feet too. They shook hands, and he closed her portfolio and handed it back to her. After tucking it under her arm, she made her way out to Fleet Street. On the pavement, she stood a moment, trying not to get swallowed whole by an enormous sense of disappointment.
She looked around at the ladies and gentleman going about their business in the heart of the city’s newspaper and publishing industry and vowed to herself that she would not give up.
A scream cut through the air. Ivy snapped her gaze toward the sound. At the mouth of an alley, a man stood with a cane raised above a child in ragged clothing, who crouched on the pavement, hands over their head as if to shield them from the next blow.
Ivy lifted the edge of her skirt and broke into a run, cutting through an opening in the traffic and positioning herself between the man and the child.
“Stop this!” she shouted at the brute, then looked back at the child. “Go over there and wait for me,” she told the boy. But he stayed crouched, seemingly frozen in fear.
Ivy turned back when the man surged forward.
“Get out of my way, woman.” His face was a mask of rage, red from collar to brow, scrunched above a toothy snarl.
“I will not.” Ivy looked around, hoping to see a foot patrolman. “Please go and find a constable, sir,” she called to a cluster of men who’d stopped to gawp at the confrontation.
The bystanders stared at her dumbly, making no move to assist in any way.
“Aye,” the brute said, “find the law. That guttersnipe picked my pocket and dared to filch my watch.” He stepped closer. “Keep out of it, chit. It’s none of your concern.”
“Itismy concern,” Ivy insisted, shifting the hard frame of her portfolio up to brace it against her chest like a shield.
